


As Blood Is to Stars

by the_rck



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Age Difference, Allies to...?, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Background Casefic, Before Earth-Minbari War, Europa, First Kiss, Friends to Allies, M/M, Neighbors to Friends, Telepathy, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/pseuds/the_rck
Summary: Michael didn't like telepaths, but he wasn't the sort of asshole to deny a man garlic. He smiled. "It makes a lot of things taste better," he said. "The way it works is there're a couple of families who grow small stuff, seasonings. Peppers are too big, but they got garlic and chives and rosemary and--" He waved a hand to indicate an et cetera. "By introduction only. I've got a standing order. My buddy, Frank, introduced me." He studied Alfred's face for a moment then added, "The food here really needs it. C'mon."Acting grateful for the favor wasn't even hard because Alfred was definitely looking forward to buying garlic. The odor of it sauteing in the next apartment over had made him crave it.
Relationships: Alfred Bester/Michael Garibaldi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	As Blood Is to Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nirejseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/gifts).



> Title from James Galvin's poem, "Double Rainbow."

Alfred carefully reassembled his physical facade. He'd spent the last six hours alone in his own stateroom. He'd taken the opportunity to nap because he was going to be in enemy territory for the next month. At least the next month. Any cracks in his shields or errors in maintaining his cover might get him killed.

Or worse. They didn't know what had happened to the first agent who'd come looking or to any of the twenty six missing Sleepers. The disappearance of the agent justified all of Alfred's suspicions. The Sleepers hadn't run after all; someone had taken them.

It still wasn't a popular theory because, if it was true, the problem would be a much bigger pain in the ass than a handful of runaways who were all below a P4 rating.

Alfred's supervisor had frowned at him and told him that he could damned well clean up the mess since he'd forced the Corps to notice it. They both knew that this wasn't Alfred's normal sort of operation. They also both knew that, if Alfred hadn't noticed it, the mess would only have gotten bigger.

But Esther Wu would have had time to retire first. She was less than a year away, and she spent a lot of her spare time dreaming about beaches and sweet mixed drinks full of hidden booze and sporting little umbrellas.

So Alfred was undercover. He was about to arrive on Europa which had never been high on his list of places he wanted to spend a long vacation. Even the nicest parts of the colony smelled of disinfectant that the manufacturer probably claimed was 'lemon.' Well, actually, it was probably a fancier name than that, at least in the parts of the station where Alfred had been before. German lemon or Rosamund's lemon or dragon lemon or... whatever the marketing team thought sounded enticing. It all smelled the same.

Europa, unfortunately, was the best place to pick up threads that might lead to any sort of organized smuggling. It wasn't on the direct route to anything, but a lot of cargo passed close which made it a workable laundry for anything that had just happened to fall off the back of a truck.

Alfred thought-- hoped-- that the missing Sleepers were still alive. The criminal world ran on profit as surely as the more legal world did, and there were fewer options for profit when it came to corpses. Not none at all, just fewer, and death would, in Alfred's opinion, be preferable to most of them.

But Alfred was a P12. He had defenses that his unknown opponents wouldn't expect from the P6 commercial telepath whose identity he was borrowing. For the duration, he would be James (call me 'Jimmy') Blish. Since they suspected that the enemy had access to either Earth Alliance or Corps records, nothing about Alfred's mission had been written down, and the real Jimmy Blish was doing administrative work in Alfred's place.

Blish would reap a lot of unofficial long term benefits from helping out. He wanted to move from commercial to Corps administration. His cooperation now would not be forgotten, and him only being a P6 wouldn't limit his advancement in a purely bureaucratic position.

Alfred's records showed two recent reprimands for 'excessive force.' The desk duty would give the Corps time to investigate and to re-educate 'Alfred' about the legal parameters of a PsiCop's authority. That process could last as long as a year.

Alfred shouldn't need anything like that much time. He hadn't even set foot on the surface, and he was already looking forward to leaving Europa behind. 

The colony there had little to recommend it, after all. Two bars, five places that sold food and caffeine, an open mic night once a week for would-be comedians, poets, and musicians, an amateur theater group that thought they could manage-- What was it this quarter? Oh, yes. -- _West Side Story_. There were book clubs, too, and some fiber craft groups.

Alfred would avoid the latter. They'd draw too much attention to his hand. Jimmy's records had an explanation to cover it, but Alfred doubted that he could pretend that the issue was recent if he was trying to learn to crochet or whatever the hell else those people did.

Jimmy would have taken full advantage, so if Alfred was there more than a week, he would have to stumble through singing a song or three, read some books, and watch and listen to everything as if he thought it was important. Jimmy was genuinely interested in people who weren't in the Corps. He _networked_. It would help him in admin because someone had to make nice with Earth Alliance bureaucrats.

Alfred would rather have his toenails ripped out.

Being genuinely interested in people also meant that no one thought it odd when Jimmy poked his nose into new places or struck up conversations with strangers or remembered personal details about acquaintances. Doing any of that on Europa, though, would have gotten Jimmy killed or kidnapped as certainly as whatever mistake Kasimierz Makowski, P6, had made.

Alfred being a P12 would help him not make those same errors. He hoped. The possibility that he might not return home with another job done was not one he let himself consider very often or for very long.

Alfred could do the networking part of Blish's skill set, even the harmless curiosity part of it, but when he was himself, he usually didn't need to. He was supposed to be the very frightening stick to his commander's cheerfully offered carrots. Alfred was the immovable 'or else.' He could do other things, but he was good at playing that role, and not everyone was, not even all P12s or all Psi Cops.

The other reason he was being Jimmy Blish was that Jimmy looked like a soft target who'd buy a sob story and might have vices or secrets that could be used for blackmail. The real Jimmy wasn't soft, though, and he couldn't be blackmailed.

The Corps already knew Jimmy's secrets and Jimmy's vices. If anyone went too far in trying to use those weaknesses against the Corps, the Corps would protect its own the way that parents should.

_________________

Alfred's-- _Jimmy's_ \-- quarters had roaches. He supposed they were better than the rats they sometimes got on Mars. He'd never once heard of a person getting lost and then eaten by roaches.

They were still disgusting, and Alfred was going to have to put up with them because the real Jimmy would have known how to get rid of them. Looking it up would be a deviation from Jimmy's normal behavior. 

Could they be got rid of at all or was it never ending like fighting mildew after the damp got in? Alfred was pretty sure he'd heard people say things about 'harder to kill than cockroaches.'

It had never occurred to Alfred that knowing Jimmy's preferred methods of exterminating insects would be relevant information. That hadn't been anywhere on the briefing. He knew Jimmy's medical issues, his relatives and their likes and dislikes. He knew the name of Jimmy's long dead pets and his kindergarten teacher. He knew Jimmy's taste in music and food preferences.

Maybe he'd be lucky. Maybe, when he went to buy the basics for his efficiency apartment, he'd see something on the shelf that was obviously meant to kill roaches. He wasn't entirely optimistic, though. Proper rat poison usually required filling out paperwork because it could kill humans if it was used either injudiciously or maliciously.

His neighbor on the right was Ramona Gutierrez, a woman who ran the second shift cafeteria for three of the mines. Across the hall was a woman who'd eyed him as if he might be an ax murderer and scuttled away before he could introduce himself. On the left was a very junior Earthforce peace officer named Michael Garibaldi who didn't like telepaths.

Mr Garibaldi was going to have to get past that dislike because Alfred needed an in with colonial security. Getting to know a neighbor was a very normal thing, much less suspicious than lurking in bars and trying to spot people with the right posture and mannerisms or shadowing cops in uniform to see where they went during their down time.

Also, Alfred knew what these apartments cost relative to the price tag of something just a little cleaner, a little nicer. Men who were skimming the edges of corruption could afford better. Men neck deep in it might keep a place like this as a screen for whatever else they were doing with the money, but they wouldn't actually live there.

Mr Garibaldi cooked. He used a lot of garlic, enough to smell good, but Alfred could also tell that the other man was only using what was available locally and cheaply. His 'coffee' didn't smell real, and neither did his bacon. They weren't even kissing cousins to the real things.

Nobody cooked like that in an apartment where he was only pretending to live. Alfred would have been much warier if Mr Garibaldi appeared to be living on instant noodles, pseudo-cheese, and Earthforce issue multivitamins.

So Jimmy asked Michael where he bought fresh garlic.

Michael didn't like telepaths, but he wasn't the sort of asshole to deny a man garlic. He smiled. "It makes a lot of things taste better," he said. "The way it works is there're a couple of families who grow small stuff, seasonings. Peppers are too big, but they got garlic and chives and rosemary and--" He waved a hand to indicate an et cetera. "By introduction only. I've got a standing order. My buddy, Frank, introduced me." He studied Alfred's face for a moment then added, "The food here really needs it. C'mon."

Acting grateful for the favor wasn't even hard because Alfred was definitely looking forward to buying garlic. The odor of it sauteing in the next apartment over had made him crave it.

The old lady running the shop couldn't give him garlic, not right away. She put him on a waiting list and offered him rosemary and lemon balm instead. She had a few imported things as well-- nutmeg, cloves, peppercorns, and the like-- but those were very much outside of his price range. He bought a grinder from her anyway because he might have money to splurge some other time.

Alfred let his disappointment show as he and Michael strolled back toward their apartments. "I'll just have to keep drooling over the garlic when you cook with it," he said. "It's almost as good that way."

Michael laughed. "I can share tonight. If you want."

Alfred smiled. "I'd like that. Next time I get something from Earth, I'll share."

"I'll definitely be taking you up on that."

_______________

Three days later, after their second shared meal, Michael invited Alfred to a poker game. "Just some guys hanging out after work tomorrow," he said as Alfred gathered the dishes and stacked them in Michael's sink.

Alfred really wished he could. He needed to broaden his social circle as much as possible. He kept his eyes on the wall above the sink where Michael had taped a Daffy Duck poster over the peeling image of a fake window.

Michael said the pine forest in the fake window looked like it might spit out monsters when the lights were out. Alfred thought that this and Michael's other posters were losing the battle against the dim lights, the olive green carpeting, and the terra cotta colored walls.

Michael really needed some lamps.

"People don't like telepaths at poker games," Alfred said after a few too many seconds had passed. He felt the jolt of Michael's realization-- Michael had forgotten that 'Jimmy' was a telepath-- even though he was making no effort to scan the other man and reminded himself that the fact that Michael hadn't considered the ways 'Jimmy' could cheat was a good sign for their friendship.

"I'd like to meet your friends," Alfred added to be sure that Michael understood. "I just can't really play a game that requires strategy and bluffing. I wouldn't cheat, but how could any of you be sure? Even if I just watched, your friends would wonder."

Alfred listened to Michael's surface thoughts and caught the moment when Michael realized that pretending his new friend wasn't Psi Corps would be stupid. And probably lose him his other friends.

For a moment, Alfred felt old. No, Alfred felt how young Michael was, how inexperienced. Alfred felt sad for the man Michael would likely be when he was a decade or three older. Life was pretty certain to batter him because life did that. Michael didn't have money or a mentor or a rare talent insulate him.

Michael was also a Normal who Alfred would never see again once this mission on Europa was over. Alfred had no business feeling sad over things that might never happen to the man.

"There should be something we can do together that's not eating." Michael's mind told Alfred that the other man was wondering how many normal things the Psi Corps denied its members. Michael thought it had to be lonely and sad.

Alfred wanted to be angry at the pity implicit in the thought, and he probably would have been if it hadn't combined with his recent thoughts about how young Michael was. He couldn't be a day over 22, if he was even that old. Michael didn't know that a life could be very different from what he thought normal and still be good. Michael's expectations hadn't been shattered that badly yet.

When Alfred had been 22, he hadn't understood any of that, either, but he probably wouldn't have been generous enough or trusting enough to share luxuries with a stranger who wasn't part of the Corps. 

"We'll find something," Alfred said gently as he turned back toward Michael's eyesore of a table-- a bright orange plastic tray protruding from one wall, large enough for two but not for three. If it was like Alfred's, it glowed dimly in the dark so that Michael wouldn't blunder into it and snap it off. "If we look for it." 

He hesitated then added, "And it's not the Corps that limits us. The rules, the charter, came from outside. We chose the design of the uniform but not the fact of there being a uniform." He wondered if Michael would grasp all of the implications. He suspected not, and that saddened him. He knew it shouldn't because Michael was a Normal, but it did.

Alfred made himself consider whether or not Jimmy Blish would have kept trying to explain.

Probably, but if Alfred tried, his sadness was going to turn to anger and, possibly, spite. He still needed Michael for networking and gossip. He still wanted Michael's company as a thing in itself.

Alfred loved the Corps, but he was also bitterly angry about it because he knew that the Normals who designed it meant it as a ghetto, as a trap. Telepaths would be trained and available as needed, but nobody would ever mistake one of them for a 'normal person.' 

There were places telepaths couldn't go, not because they were forbidden it but because the uniform marked them as abnormal which made them targets. Alfred could use his mind to defend himself against physical violence if he had to, but a P1 or P2 wouldn't have that.

The Corps would come in, after the fact, to clean things up, but nothing would restore the dead or otherwise undo the event. Survivors could heal and find ways to go on, but they were never the same after. Alfred suspected that those situations and the constant fear of those situations contributed to the higher suicide rates for those below P3 rating.

Constant fear was a lot like constant pain. It wore away at all the good parts of a person's life.

"I suppose we could play something else," Michael said. "The guys might go for it."

Alfred tried to imagine that. Him and Michael and a handful of faceless Normals playing war or spit or peanut or any card game that didn't rely on strategy. He shook his head to get rid of the image. "Dice, maybe?"

The existence of telekinetics was a secret held tight enough that Alfred couldn't image anyone on Europa had gotten the slightest whiff of it, and Alfred wasn't a telekinetic anyway. He didn't regret that. Telekinesis broke minds, and his mind was everything he was.

Michael laughed. "Bet we could find some. Maybe even make some."

Alfred had only the vaguest idea of what people did with dice. "There'll be less bluffing."

Michael shrugged. "It's mostly an excuse not to keep looking at the same four walls. One of the guys has a still; he's been experimenting."

Alfred heard the man's name in Michael's thoughts and took the verbal vagueness as a sign that Michael didn't quite trust him yet. The still was very clearly Someone Else's Secret.

Since it likely wouldn't have any bearing on Alfred's investigation, he thought he could leave that secret be. The people Alfred was looking for would drink things that tasted better than what usually came from a still set up in someone's bedroom.

He'd taste whatever was on offer, but the odds were very much against Michael's friend lying about having a still in order to cover for better booze than he ought to be able to afford.

Michael was thinking that it _smelled_ terrible. He'd never tasted it.

That-- That did not fit with Alfred's current profile of Michael. He supposed it might be a religious issue or an interaction with some medication. The latter seemed unlikely given Michael's career; Earthforce had fairly stringent physical guidelines for peace officers, especially peace officers in places like Europa where there was a small but constant risk of mechanical breakdown leading to environmental catastrophe.

It would be unfortunate if the person making decisions about the safety of an isolated and at risk part of the colony was suffering withdrawal from, well, anything at all. Alfred could see the logic.

He hoped that whatever it was wouldn't have a negative effect on Michael's career. That hope surprised him, and he put the surprise aside to look at when he was alone.

If he got upset about becoming attached, Michael might notice. That-- regardless of Alfred's feelings-- would be bad. Michael liked Jimmy. Michael almost certainly would despise Alfred.

And Alfred shouldn't wish it otherwise. It wasn't as if there was any chance that he'd alter himself. He'd spent far too long creating himself as a perfect Psi Cop. People were supposed to hate him because he could withstand the attacks.

If the Corps was mother and father, Alfred Bester was the hulking big brother who frightened off bullies by being strong enough to take them. He couldn't always be there, but the idea of him and of other Psi Cops loomed large enough to keep most Normals, the sober ones, the observant ones, the casual anti-telepaths, from starting anything that they'd all regret.

____________

Working as a commercial telepath was a pain in the ass. On Europa, a lot of the work was law enforcement related. Some of it involved trade union negotiations. Both were potentially useful because Alfred could scoop a lot more information from a mind than just whether or not a person was being honest.

More than half of the minds Alfred had touched in the last two weeks belonged to people who were involved in smuggling, extortion, embezzlement, and even less savory activities. A lot of the others were looking the other way out of fear or greed or complete indifference.

A few of the minds he'd touched had the marks of telepathic tampering by someone both powerful and clumsy. Corps trained telepaths had a certain uniformity of technique, so Alfred was very nearly certain that the culprit had never been part of the Corps.

He also doubted that the Corps had left a telepath with this much power among the sleepers. Legally, they couldn't coerce anyone into the Corps, but no one outside of the Corps could prove tampering. Alfred had done the work a few times. It was necessary because a rogue that powerful could-- would, inevitably-- shatter the ceasefire the Corps maintained.

The Corps wasn't ready for that, not yet. They needed two or three decades yet. Alfred hoped he lived to see it. He wouldn't know what to do with peace and safety, but he'd like to see other, younger telepaths find that.

Because of the danger, Alfred had taken the risk of breaking cover long enough to send in a report. He didn't have any backup. A rogue this powerful might require more than one Psi Cop.

All Alfred had was an honest cop who still didn't much like telepaths and who had no idea about the river of excrement that might be about to pour down on them. 

He could probably avoid bringing Michael into it, but Alfred wasn't sure how hard he'd try.

Michael was on course for disaster entirely on his own. He wasn't willing to bend, so he'd either break or die. Alfred shouldn't care. He normally wouldn't. But Europa and Earthforce were going to destroy Michael without even noticing his existence.

Alfred had noticed, and Michael could be useful. It was entirely about utility. Really.

Alfred's coworkers would mock him mercilessly if they ever found out. Alfred considered that one evening while staring at his darkened ceiling and trying to find sleep. It was better than chewing over half-baked strategies for fighting an unknown opponent.

The Corps could definitely use a few competent Normals for operations like this so that Psi Cops didn't have to do all of the risky legwork. Michael couldn't touch a person's mind, but he could walk through a crowd and not be noticed. He could stroll into any gathering of Normals and not risk being outed as a telepath because he wasn't one.

The Psi Corps wasn't supposed to employee private agents for any sort of operations. Officially, the Corps was a part of the Earth Alliance bureaucracy, and the Earth Alliance had rules about civilian contractors. The powers that be within the Corps had generally found it easier, safer, to use telepaths to fill all of the positions inside their bureaucracy.

The fact that Normals were uncomfortable when surrounded by telepaths made operational security much, much simpler. If they didn't apply for the jobs, they weren't ever going to get them, and they weren't ever going to notice certain oddities in the bookkeeping and inaccuracies in geographical and spatial coordinates.

The idea of luring Michael away from Earthforce became more appealing the more that Alfred thought about it. Michael would benefit, and Alfred would have an ace in the hole for certain types of missions.

Alfred would have to work carefully; Michael was not the sort to be easily led.

________________

The air filter and circulation break down on their corridor could have been an accident. The fact that it happened when Alfred was sleeping might have been a coincidence. It wasn't, of course. The lack of any sort of alarm seemed like far too much bad luck.

The only reason no one died was that Michael had pulled last minute, off the books overtime. He recognized the scent of bad air and started banging on doors. The people in the rooms nearest the end of the corridor mostly managed to wake, and they were able to help Michael break down doors and get everyone else out.

Emergency services arrived in response to Michael's call to security. Eventually. If Michael hadn't had help already onsite, the delay would have meant death for most of the residents.

Michael thought it was negligence, but Alfred took this as an attempt on his life. All of the other residents would have been collateral damage.

Which meant that Alfred needed a different place to sleep, one where no one could find him. He didn't know Europa well enough to have any ideas about his options.

After the doctor decided that Alfred was well enough to leave Medical, Alfred went looking for Michael.

"I wanted to thank you," Alfred said as he sat down next to Michael at the counter of one of the colony's few restaurants. "I know you'd have done the same for anyone, but still."

Michael smiled. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days. "They say we can go back in another twenty four hours. I'm bunking with the Kemmers tonight."

Alfred kept all of his senses alert. As far as he could tell, no one was paying them any attention. "I can't go back," he said very softly, moving his lips as little as he could.

Michael noticed Alfred's hypervigilance because, of course, he did. His posture sharpened for a moment before he slumped back into his former obvious exhaustion.

That was a tell that Michael would need to learn to avoid. At least he'd noticed what he was doing and stopped it.

Alfred ordered the local coffee substitute and a bowl of rice with protein paste. He removed his gloves to eat. He left them on the counter to his left so that they weren't between him and Michael. "I suspect I'm a danger to the rest of you," he murmured as he raised his mug.

"Protective custody?" Michael sounded dubious, but Alfred could tell that he still hoped that the corruption he'd noticed wasn't systemic.

"I'd be a sitting duck," Alfred replied. "I trust you, Michael, but... There are... Anyone else, anybody who wasn't on our corridor that night, might be--" He shook his head. His hesitations were as much artifice as true doubt.

Michael twitched. His thoughts didn't reflect disbelief so much as unhappiness. Michael was too tired to be properly enraged.

"If I tell you, you'll lose everything you've got here." Alfred thought that was more enticement than threat. "Well, not necessarily the friends, the real ones, but you'll never work on Europa again."

Michael considered that then shrugged. "Thirty people almost died. I'd risk a lot to stop that happening again." He sipped from his own mug. "I never expected my job to be safe."

"If we make it through, I might be able--" Alfred hesitated and took a deep breath. "Earthforce isn't the only option."

Michael's surface thoughts roiled with revulsion.

Alfred managed a sad smile. "Or not," he said. The revulsion hurt; it didn't surprise him at all, but it still hurt.

It shouldn't have. Alfred was old enough to know better.

Michael flushed. "It's not you." He waved a hand to indicate all of the Psi Corps related baggage that would come along with Alfred.

"It is, though," Alfred corrected, keeping his tone gentle. He picked up his mug again. "If you're still willing to help, we need to talk privately." He could easily speak into Michael's mind, but he rather thought that a forced mind to mind touch would destroy any chance of an alliance between them.

Michael made a small, thoughtful sound as he tried to think about truly private places for them to talk. Neither of them spoke again until after Alfred finished eating.

"Got an idea where you can bunk tonight," Michael said as Alfred dropped his crumpled napkin on top of his empty bowl.

Alfred nodded and picked up his gloves. He stood as he started pulling them on. He fumbled the process and realized that his right hand had begun shaking. He hoped it was only exhaustion. He couldn't afford to be afraid. "I don't want to impose on anyone," he said and hoped that Michael would understand that Alfred's presence would be a risk to any potential hosts.

And their knowledge of where Alfred was sleeping would put Alfred at risk. If Michael hadn't gotten there on his own, Alfred thought it might be tactically unsound to mention it.

"Budget accommodations near the landing pads." Michael started walking in that direction. "Not much more than space for a mattress and meant mostly for sleeping off binges that guys don't want their captains to take official notice of. The captains know, of course, but as long as they don't see..."

Alfred would have been worried if he hadn't been able to tell that Michael had something else in mind.

Michael was entirely right that Alfred needed an official address for the night. Alfred really should have thought of it.

_______________

Alfred should have expected Michael's ideal hiding place to be unpleasant, but even if it had occurred to him, his notions of 'unpleasant' would have fallen well short of the reality.

"Shouldn't be anyone needing to come in here," Michael told him. "Too damp to use for a drop for smuggled goods, too cramped for making deals."

Alfred sighed. "And too cold and smelly for sleeping cheap." They were underneath part of the wastewater treatment plant.

Michael snorted. "We catch anyone sleeping down here, and they get shipped out the next day. There are colonies that need workers." He must have seen something in Alfred's face because he added, "Not like we check all that often. Well, not that _I_ do. It's my job to walk these access tunnels every two or three days."

Alfred eyed the ceiling. It looked sound enough, but he couldn't stop expecting cracks to appear and sludge to start dripping. "And maintenance workers? Monitoring?"

Michael wobbled a hand back and forth. "No monitoring, not that kind. No inspections due but mine. We could get unlucky with some sort of equipment failure, but the system's pretty robust. The lights stay on, so you don't have to choose between darkness and anomalous power usage." He patted the grey painted concrete. "The red arrows will get you out. The numbered yellow ones will take you to maintenance scaffolding and accesses if you really have to play hide and seek."

Alfred supposed that all of their options were risky. "I'm sorry, Michael," he said. "It's lovely. Really. I'm sure I'll be very comfortable."

Michael laughed. "Put the tarp down, and I'll put the other stuff on top of it." His expression set into hard determination. "Then you tell me what the hell this is about."

"You're entitled."

He was, but Alfred wasn't sure how much of the truth he could safely offer. Alfred considered that as he unfolded the tarp and spread it and smoothed it. The fabric caught a little in the places where the floor was wetter. The square tarp was too wide for the corridor, but that was better than too narrow.

"I lied about my name," Alfred said as he tugged the tarp to make sure he had roughly equal ridges along each wall. "There's a real Jimmy Blish, but this assignment was too dangerous for someone like him." He sighed and didn't look up at Michael. "The last P6 who poked at it, well... We don't even know if he's dead. Telepaths are a commodity, after all."

Michael made a horrified noise that would have told Alfred that the other man understood even if Alfred hadn't been able to see it in Michael's thoughts.

Alfred knelt on the tarp. He still didn't look up because he didn't want Michael to see the wince as Alfred realized, viscerally, what that cold concrete was going to do to his knees. "It's not something we advertise; we don't want to give anyone ideas." He knew his smile was bitter. "We can't protect the Sleepers, and when they disappear-- Well. It's usually suicide."

Michael crouched next to Alfred and handed him a blanket. "So that leads to you, here, hiding from--?"

Alfred set the blanket on an unoccupied corner of the tarp, taking care not to let it near the edges. It wouldn't dry once it got damp. He looked directly at Michael. "I know what Makowski found. At least, I think I do. Nothing I found is admissible evidence, of course." He waited until Michael's thoughts told him that Michael understood that. "I don't know if I can explain what I found to you." He shook his head "It's... It's like a lot of the minds I've touched here, the ones I touched while on the clock, had greasy gouges in their thoughts."

Michael choked. After a moment, he asked, "And mine?"

"Refreshingly clean." Alfred made the words light and a little teasing. "Compared to most of the rest. As far as I can tell, your friends are safe, too. Just... not any of your coworkers, and your friends will be safer if they don't know." He swallowed hard, feigning fear. "You could get me into trouble with that. I had no authorization to look."

Alfred Bester never cared about authorization, not from Earth Gov or security, only about not getting caught. This time... This time, he cared-- a little-- because Michael would judge him for it.

Alfred would regret Michael, but he would clean up the resulting mess. If there was one.

Michael rocked back and considered; Alfred still wasn't entirely sure what direction the other man would jump. "You-- the Corps-- can't afford to let anyone know."

"No," Alfred acknowledged. "The rogue needs to die quietly, so that the rest of us aren't murdered. The people the rogue altered should recover without further intervention." 

That last was stretching the truth. None of them would ever be quite the same, but that was going to be true no matter what the Corps did. Some of them-- most of them-- would have become criminals anyway.

"And me?"

"Killing you would be a poor return for fresh garlic." Alfred was pretty sure that Michael saw the Psi Cop now and knew that Alfred would kill Michael if he thought it was necessary.

Michael nodded. He busied himself inflating a pillow. When he was done, he shoved it at Alfred. "You'll wreck your knees if you keep on like this."

Alfred accepted the pillow and rocked back so that he could wedge it under his knees. He suspected that it wouldn’t help much with the chill that was already settling into his joints— air didn’t hold body heat well— but the cushioning would probably keep knees from stiffening as much. They’d brought enough inflatables for him to be able to lie down if he had to try to sleep. He hoped he wouldn't have to because getting up again was likely to feel impossible even if it wasn't.

His current plan involved more pacing than sitting or lying down. He wasn't going to tell Michael that because it made him look weak or-- worse-- old. He didn't want to look too closely at why it mattered if Michael thought him either.

Alfred stayed in shape because his body had to support his telepathy and because some of his missions carried the threat of physical violence, but even an Olympic athlete would need time to recover after an hour on this floor. Even when he'd been Michael's age, Alfred hadn't been physically capable of Olympic level athletics.

Not that telepaths were permitted to compete in the Olympics. The Corps had some internal athletic competitions that included track and field events, swimming, team sports, and so on, but those were private, hidden even, not quite secret but a thing that might be taken away if the general public knew.

Alfred had favored the high dive. The moments of controlled falling had felt like freedom. His bad hand had meant that his form could never be perfect, could never be competitive, but—

"You’re a million miles away," Michael said.

Alfred blinked and started slightly. He was too relaxed, too trusting with Michael. Alfred was going to have to do some serious mental maintenance if he had to kill Michael or even just rearrange the other man's memories. 

Regret could too easily become guilt. Guilt could become disloyalty to the Corps. Disloyalty to the Corps meant Alfred's people might die.

"Too much time to think about things that aren’t...” Alfred shrugged. "I didn’t expect— well." He waved at the walls around them. "The plan was just to be a normal part of the community and to pay attention. Which would,” he added, a little defensively, "have worked fine if—" He cut himself off. “Not low risk, but sending me was supposed to be overkill.”

"So what's your name?" Michael asked his mind showing genuine curiosity untinged by hostility. "Knowing that can't get me in any deeper."

Alfred relaxed a little at the indication that Michael understood the danger of drowning. Taking that understanding with Michael still being willing to help made having to harm Michael a more distant probability. "Bester. Alfred Bester. You can use whichever of those you prefer." He considered for a moment. "I'd rather not be called 'Al.'"

"You can call me 'Betty,'" Michael responded with something that was almost a smile.

Before getting to know Michael, Alfred wouldn't have recognized the reference. Now, he snorted. "It doesn't suit you, but I will if you prefer." He shifted position to get the pillow more fully under his legs. "You're old enough to pick your own name."

"How long until backup arrives?" Michael sounded worried, and there was controlled fear underneath the man's flow of tactical planning. Timing might make some options more or less viable than others.

"Soon." Alfred didn't actually know. "Probably only a day or two more." He hoped for sooner, but there weren't that many people capable of helping discreetly. There should be at least three on Mars alone, but he couldn't be sure that some other emergency hadn't called them away. "Plan for three days."

"Am I safe to go back out there?"

Alfred considered the question then stifled the urge to say no. 

Michael on the outside might provide warning, but Michael would be safer staying.

And Alfred wouldn't be alone.

"The rogue is powerful but not very subtle. I could help you hide what you know. If you trust me for that." He knew that Michael wouldn't like the idea. "The rogue was always going to come after you eventually, and we might get unlucky on their timing. This would buy you a minute or two to run." He wondered if Michael would realize that, if he ran, his friends might be targets.

Alfred didn't want to point it out because there were some truths that could break a person. He suspected that Michael didn't yet understand the vulnerabilities that came with human connections.

"If I say no?" Michael sounded like he was considering it.

"Then I strongly suggest not going back out there."

"Earthforce doesn't like deserters." It sounded more like a consideration than an objection.

Alfred didn't answer for several seconds because he wanted Michael to have time to look at the problem from different angles. "I won't force you," he said at last. It ought to have been a lie, but he thought he probably would let Michael go out unprotected if Michael was that unwilling to have Alfred touch him.

Michael's lips twitched. "Because of the garlic?" Michael's thoughts told Alfred that Michael understood Alfred's reluctance as a measure of esteem.

"You were absolutely better company than the cockroaches," Alfred told him.

"Well, that's a given. The roaches can't cook." Michael finally settled to sit cross legged on the tarp. "I-- Do it."

They both pretended that the shaking in Michael's voice was laughter.

Alfred took off his gloves. He touched the fingers of his right hand to Michael's left. "Think of your mind like water." He hoped that the simile would be comfortable. Walls were easier for most people, but they tended to be both obvious and brittle. "Near the surface, there's enough light that someone else can look in and see movement, but if they touch, you'll sense the ripples." He let his mind brush against Michael's thoughts about the warmth of their skin touching so that Michael could feel the minute disruption to the surface of his mind.

It was, Alfred thought, the least private of the thoughts coming to the surface.

"Deeper in, there's only light if you create it. There's only churn if you allow it." Alfred pressed deeper and directed Michael's attention inward so that they could build the imagery. "Some things will want to bubble upward, not just thoughts." He stroked his thumb against Michael's skin to stimulate a harmless mental response that would want to surface. 

"Someone who knows minds will know how to dredge the depths. You can anchor the things you want to keep hidden, but you'll need to push other things upward instead. You're not strong enough to hold everything for long. Also... having nothing come up will make it obvious that you're hiding something." 

Michael was struggling because his mind really wanted the important things, the survival things, to be near the surface. He wanted the knowledge ready to hand and obvious when he needed it. A PPG in a locked drawer wasn't worth a damn if he only had a split second to grab a weapon.

"Let it go a moment." Alfred considered the options. "If you can't keep thoughts down, throwing something else up will buy time. Maybe a toxic algae bloom? Or strands of kelp that tangle everything trying to move? An advertising jingle or a nursery rhyme would work for that. As a last resort, you could probably make a tsunami out of panic."

The moment when Michael fully integrated the metaphor felt like the firm click of a strong magnet making contact. Alfred didn't think it would work for long, not without Michael working for weeks or months to make it all second nature, but it would last few days, keeping Michael from shouting, 'I've got a deadly secret!' at every passing telepath.

They'd have backup before Michael needed more than this. There'd be time later for training.

If Michael wanted it. He might not. Or, worse, he might want it only because it would free him from all telepaths, including Alfred.

Alfred let himself enjoy the skin to skin contact for almost a minute before he pulled his hand back. He hadn't realized how much he missed friendly touch. 

"That should hold," he said at last, pulling his hand back. "I'll try to sleep while you're gone," he added in the most reassuring tone he could manage because he knew that Michael thought he looked well beyond exhausted. 

Alfred didn't bother putting his gloves back on. He was pretty sure that Michael wouldn't take the bared skin as a threat.

Michael stared at him then shook his head.

Alfred waved a hand. "I'm in such a stimulating environment that sleeping will be hard, but I'll manage." He layered the sarcasm, hoping that Michael would miss how true the first part of the statement was.

'Stimulating' sounded much happier than 'irritating' did.

"Right." Michael kept looking at Alfred. The surface of Michael's thought remained placid, giving Alfred no hint of what lay beneath.

Michael would probably notice if Alfred dipped far enough into his mind to understand why. That had, after all, been the point of the last half an hour.

After a minute, Michael raised his hand and brushed one fingertip against Alfred's cheek, very deliberate skin to skin contact. "Thanks."

Alfred froze.

Michael gave a huff of laughter. "I'll be back later," he promised. He leaned in pressed his lips against Alfred's, just a touch and then gone before Alfred could respond. Michael stood. His smile was now more of a smirk. "After mind to mind, it's the kiss that floors you? I'll have to go real slow."  


Alfred caught a flash of anxiety in Michael's mind at the possibility that Alfred might not want to 'go' at all.

As he walked away, Michael said, "It's not like this was our first date."

Alfred wasn't sure that Michael saw him nod. _If you still want to. Later._ Alfred dropped the words into Michael's thoughts just before the other man turned a corner and vanished from sight.

Alfred tucked the warmth of new hope into a crevice of his mind where no enemy could ever find it. Maybe he would be able to sleep after all.


End file.
